


This was not in the Job description

by cucumber_of_doom



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 12:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4705535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cucumber_of_doom/pseuds/cucumber_of_doom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alec and James overestimate their lock picking skills and Q has to fix it.</p>
<p>OR</p>
<p>That time Alec got his dick stuck in a pair of high-tech handcuffs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This was not in the Job description

It was a rare, slow morning in Q-branch. With the national threat level low and only a few oversea missions going – none of which were in a critical stage right now – the usual buzz had settled down to an almost peaceful level. Q had checked in with 003 earlier but her contact would not arrive in Nassau for another six or seven hours and he let her catch some sleep.

For now he had settled behind his desk in the main room of the branch, looking through some code with his his second mug of earl grey still steaming next to him. This peace was broken when someone stopped in front of him and placed something on the desk.

“Good morning, Q. Have some cake.”

Q looked up from the monitor, frowning up at 006, then down at the ominous paper bag in front of him. It had the right size to contain a single slice of cake, the logo on it promising it to be especially tasty, whatever kind of treat it might contain. He deftly picked up a pen, using it to push the paper bag towards the edge of the desk where the agent caught it before it fell.

“Q, I have an apology to make and a favour to ask. Which do you want to hear first?” Trevelyan asked politely. It made Q's alarm bells ring.

“Good morning to you too, 006. What a wonderful day for not getting involved in any of your harebrained schemes. Please take your bribe and leave, I have actual work to do,” he said cautiously, hoping whatever kind of problem the agent had gotten into would solve itself. The only movement Trevelyan made was to push the cake back towards his keyboard. Damn.

“So I take it you don't like cheesecake?”

“There is nothing wrong with cheesecake. What I don't like is the look on your face. Too innocent. Double-oh's don't do innocent.” He turned his head, quickly scanning the room. “And I can see Bond lurking by the door.” He narrowed his eyes, giving 006 a once over. “What have you done this time?”

“First: It was not my idea. Bond came up with it and...”

Q held up a hand, successfully cutting him off mid-sentence.

“Is this the part where you apologize for whatever you did? Because I did not hear any kind of apology from your mouth. Maybe you should try again, agent.”

Trevelyan took in a breath and looked towards the ceiling which made him look like a schoolboy forced to recite a poem. In Q's opinion that was usually the perfect description of any double-oh about to apologize.

“I am sorry, Q, for stealing a pair of handcuffs from your workshop yesterday. It was a very irresponsible thing to do. Now will you unlock them please?” Trevelyan said through gritted teeth, eyes still locked on the ceiling. Q lifted an eyebrow.

“I already wondered where they had gone. Should have suspected thieving field agents from the beginning,” he said, casually leaning back in his chair. If this was about what he thought this might actually get interesting.

Trevelyan pulled up the left sleeve of his grey sweater, exposing his rubbed raw wrist with one of the gleaming cuffs around, a short bit of connecting chain still attached.

“I keep setting off metal detectors and it is starting to become extremely uncomfortable.”

“You found out about the feature where they tighten every time you try to slip them off I presume?” Q asked, a smug little smile spreading on his face. He had been right. The new prototype was officially double-oh-proof.

Trevelyan pulled down his sleeve, hiding the evidence of his failure to escape from prying eyes.

“Yes. That function is very reliable. I like how they loosen up a little bit afterwards and not break my wrist. Nice touch,” he grumbled.

“Crushed bones or blood would make them easier to slip again. That would be counter productive and the paperwork to have them re-classified as a torture device is a nightmare.”

“Can you get them off or not?”

“If you haven't managed to damage the sensor it should only take a second. They weren't cleared for field testing yet and the biometric lock is still set to my signature only. Give me your wrist.”

Trevelyan didn't.

“You will want to do that in your office,” he said instead, giving Q a pointed look that seemed to belong on a mission and not into headquarters.

“Do I?”

“Yes, you do,” he insisted. Q let out a sigh.

“Fine. Whatever will get you out of my hair.”

The Quartermaster pushed back his chair, stood up and gestured for the agent to follow him into the small, glass-walled private office he hardly ever used. He preferred working on the desk outside in the main office where he could keep an eye on his underlings and any nosy agents with too much free time. Inside there were several tables strewn with electronics, another desktop computer and a comfortable - if slightly beaten-up - black leather couch Q had spent more nights sleeping on than he was willing to admit.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing towards it while sitting down on the ergonomic office chair R had talked him into getting.

“I'd rather stand,” Trevelyan answered and went to close the blinds on the glass wall facing the other room. Q merely shrugged. Everyone at MI6 knew how twitchy double-oh's could get between missions.

“Suit yourself.”

While waiting for Trevelyan to come closer he picked a tablet from between some manila folders and and a handful of empty candy wrappers. He needed to clean up before M decided to pay him a visit.

“How long did it take to get through the chain?” he asked and opened the document on the cuffs to take notes on the subject. He couldn't have picked a better candidate for testing the cuffs even if he would never say it where the man could hear. No need to stroke his ego.

“About half an hour with a hand saw. We broke several blades trying to get through the cuffs. Bolt cutter and hammer didn't work either and I refused to try a flame cutter,” Trevelyan reported with Q nodding along.

“Smart choice.”

He sat the tablet aside, scooted closer with his chair and took a moment to inspect the slightly scratched and dented, but otherwise unharmed cuff. Then he pressed his left thumb to where the keyhole would have been on any other pair of cuffs. It clicked open without a hitch and Q laid it onto the closest flat surface to have a closer look at later.

“If that is all...” he said absentmindedly, already making notes on the tablet again. The agent cleared his throat.

“Actually not. There is still the second one.”

Trevelyan took a a step back, undid his belt and fly and pushed down his jeans before Q had a chance to protest. For a heartbeat he stared at the metal cuff sitting extremely snug around the agent's balls and the base of his cock.

„I should have known that the other cuff being attached to your bedframe would be too much to hope for,“ Q said with a sigh while rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Just take it off, okay? My balls hurt and I think I am getting a rash,” Trevelyan whined, not looking nearly as uncomfortable as Q felt. There were reasons why he liked working with computers; one of them being that those had no squishy bits that could get stuck in government property.

“Turn around.”

“That is what James said when he got out the cuffs,” Trevelyan commented with a grin in his voice but did as told.

Q closed his eyes and silently counted to ten before opening them again.

“There are things I never wanted to know about you and Bond,” he muttered while trying to think of the best way to solve the problem at hand. He contemplated fetching gloves but dismissed the idea. The cuff wouldn't recognize his biometric signature through nitrile and he wanted the pantless agent out of his office as quickly as possible. Q took a deep breath to steady himself, then reached between the agent's legs, pressed his thumb to the sensor and waited for the click.

The moment he eased off the warm metal Trevelyan let out a positively obscene groan, followed shortly by a hiss of pain when circulation returned full force. 

“This is why you can't have nice things, Trevelyan,” Q said after dropping the cuff next to it's twin and quickly wiped his hands on his slacks. He felt a strong need to properly wash them first chance he got.

Trevelyan pulled up his jeans, wincing only slightly at the movement. Q could not even blame him.

“Aren't we on a first name basis now that you have touched my junk?” he asked and Q decided to blame him after all.

“That will be all, agent,” he said clipped. “Thought I would go see a medical professional if I were you. Restricting the blood flow to your genitals can't be healthy for that amount of time.”

Q stood up and crossed the distance to the door in a few strides. Upon opening it he almost collided with the solid wall of muscle that was Bond lurking in front of it, dressed in an impeccable suit as always. He caught the quartermaster by the arm before he was able to slip past.

“How can we convince you to never mention this to anyone?” Bond asked in a low voice, eyes crinkling in a slow smile. Q had enough.

“Never involve me in your sexlife again. Ever. Not even peripherally. Next time either of you get their dick stuck? Go to medical. Or try acting like adults for a change and not let it happen in the first place,” he demanded, shouldering past the agent and only turned around when he heard Trevelyan talk again.

“You still want me to take the cake with me?” he called after him.

Bastard.

“Don't you dare! I deserve sugar after putting up with your bullshit instead of doing the job I am actually getting paid for. Now bugger off!” he called over his shoulder, heading towards the restroom. If anyone stole his cake while he was washing his hands there would be hell to pay.


End file.
